


Tell Me a Lie

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anchors, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Derek Needs To Use His Words, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Human Scott McCall, Love Confessions, M/M, Mates, Pining Derek, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beautiful Rakscha sent me this Tumblr Prompt: If you'll consider this prompt. Peter had bitten Stiles and after his death Stiles is Alpha (He killed Peter or else). So. Derek and Scott are not automatically his pack. But he needs it. So comes to them to make the pack. And Derek is confused and scared. he doesn't understand how Stiles can be his Alpha, but being next to him feels more pack then Peter and Laura were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me a Lie

“He wasn’t yours to kill!” Derek bellows, feeling as much guilt for fighting with Stiles as he does rage for him.

Stiles’ shoulders hunch, every muscle in him twining tightly in anxiety. Derek can feel the fear coming off Stiles in waves, but he’s stubborn and still itching to fight. Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but Derek beats him to it.

“ _I_ should have avenged Laura! I _explained_ what would happen if you killed the Alpha and _now_ you want my help?”

“He _Bit_ me!” Stiles argues, his eyes flashing red and fangs poking from his gums, “I had every right to kill him for what he’s done to me!”

“The Bite is a gift!” Derek shouts, his own eyes an electric blue.

Stiles stands uselessly in the burnt out Hale house, wondering if this was all for naught. He’s been going back and forth with Derek for almost fifteen minutes now and all Derek really has to say is that he hates Stiles for killing Peter. Which he won’t even just say, only dances around.

Derek sighs, turning away from Stiles. Stiles intakes deeply, trying to ease away the fight-or-flight coursing through him. He’s able to draw his fangs and claws back, but his eyes still glow crimson beyond his control. He swallows his pride and admits,

“I need your help. I… this was never supposed to happen to me. I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what to do or where to go. I need your help, Derek.”

Derek’s heartbeat and tense back tell Stiles nothing. Enough silent moments pass that Stiles thinks he ought to turn tail and go home, but just as he’s about to, he hears Derek’s voice. It’s born low and resigned,

“When you killed Peter and became the Alpha… you took away my only chance at making a Pack.”

_Are **we** not Pack?_ Stiles thinks to himself.

Something buzzes like irritation in Derek’s head, the words feeling just a little wrong now that they’re out in the air. He can sense that he’s hurt Stiles, but an apology won’t seep from behind his sharp teeth.

Stiles bites his bottom lip, frustrated with himself, with the state of the universe and wishing he’d never come into the woods at all. He feels this tie to Derek, thrumming in him and humming like it’s alive, begging him to get closer, to find comfort, to be family. He imagines putting his fangs in those feelings and killing them, but it doesn’t help the instinctive pull to make things right between himself and Derek.

“I’ll teach you what I know.”

Stiles picks his head up hesitantly as Derek turns toward him. Stiles’ throat is tight and he feels like a livewire. He asks,

“Really?”

Derek’s expression doesn’t speak of forgiveness or even tolerance. Only tired resignation. It pains Stiles deeply and he wonders for the first time if perhaps he’s muddied up Derek’s life as much as Derek’s life has muddied his.

“I don’t know a lot about being an Alpha. Laura was raised being taught. I can only teach you what I know secondhand.”

“I still need help controlling the shift,” Stiles confesses, “I need more help than just learning how to be Alpha.”

Derek mutters, “No kidding.”

* * *

 

“I want to Bite Scott,” Stiles growls menacingly around obtrusive fangs.

“Don’t Bite Scott,” Derek answers lamely.

Scott sits nervously across the room, taking a breath from his inhaler as he looks on Stiles, chained and half-shifted. The moonlight is breaking through the room and Stiles is vibrating with the fight for control. Scott mutters to Derek,

“Is this really safe?”

“No.”

Scott gives Derek an incredulous look, but Derek doesn’t meet his eyes. He only watches as Stiles pants and strains under the pull of the moonlight; at the same time feeling he deserves to struggle for the trouble he’s given Derek and still wanting to soothe him.

“What do you mean ‘no?’ What am I doing here if it’s not safe? Could he really Bite me? Would he?”

“I won’t let him Bite you,” Derek tells Scott, crouching down to Stiles.

Stiles’ irises are fiery red, his pupils are drawn in to nearly a pinpoint and Derek feels an instinctive desire to comfort him. His body wants to get closer to Stiles, to curl around him protectively, give him the scent of Pack to keep him grounded. He reminds himself that this is not Laura anymore and holding Stiles through a difficult full moon will not garner the same results.

_And he is not my Pack_ , Derek insists to himself, even though the thought feels like the deepest kind of betrayal.

It feels like a lie he’ll never be able to make himself believe.

“He needs an anchor,” Derek tells Scott, though he’s looking in Stiles’ eyes, “I think you’ll be what he chooses.”

“What’s an anchor?” Scott asks, looking wary.

Derek holds Stiles’ stare; Stiles’ eyes asking the same question. He answers them both,

“An anchor can be anything. It can be a person, a feeling, a memory, a wish, but something that calms you down. An anchor is the thing that keeps you human. Something that makes you feel strongly, that ties you down to your humanity.”

“Like a Patronus,” Stiles mumbles around fangs.

Scott chuckles and Derek gives Stiles a dry look.

“Like a Patronus.”

“You know _Harry Potter_?” Stiles inquires a little incredulously, unable to imagine Derek ever enjoying _anything_.

“Not personally,” Derek replies stoically, standing up again.

Before Stiles or Scott have time to appreciate that he was intentionally funny, he starts lecturing Stiles.

“I brought Scott because you’re close to him. You care about him. He cares about you. You both know this. I want you to focus on Scott. Focus on his heartbeat, on the scent of him. Let it anchor you.”

Stiles nods, shutting his eyes and scenting the air. He knows Scott’s body wash and shampoo, can even pick up the smell of the steroids in his inhaler. He can’t tell much more than that, though an instinct in him tells him there is so much more to know and sense.

He tries to recall memories of growing up with Scott, playing carelessly in the dirt, frightening Melissa by bringing garden snakes into the living room. He remembers passing notes to Scott (mostly about Lydia), trading Pokemon cards at lunch, helping Scott find his retainer every time he misplaced it before an orthodontist appointment.

None of these things help him keep control nearly as much as when he moves his focus onto the way the moonlight spills over Derek’s hair and face.

* * *

 

“Okay, extend them,” Derek instructs.

Stiles wills his claws out again, for what must be the fifteenth time in the hour. Derek nods and says,

“Retract them again.”

Stiles sighs and morphs his hands back into their most human state. He glares at Derek and insists,

“I got it already.”

Derek doesn’t look to believe him. His brow is furrowed seriously when he mocks,

“Fine then. Flash your eyes at me without your fangs descending.”

Stiles goes to, but as soon as he feels the red creeping into his vision, his fangs drop. He shuts his mouth tightly but he knows Derek can sense how shifted he is. Derek sits across the table from him, somehow looking simultaneously stoic and bothered.

Stiles hands want horribly to touch Derek’s skin, to hold one of Derek’s hands. Everything in his body is telling him that Derek is meant to be close to him, at his side, on his mind. That Derek doesn’t feel the same is haunting him. There's a famine in his heart and ghosts bumping around in his soul. His bones are rattling chains and every muscle he moves is like the sad groan of a lost spirit. He feels Derek's rejection between every joint in his body, behind his eyelids, under his skin, between his eyelashes. It manages to flood him up and still leave him empty.

“The shift isn’t just one fluid transformation. It’s several transformations happening at once. If you learn to better control each part of it individually, you’ll have better control over your entire shift.”

Stiles sighs his defeat and ends up spending the next two hours extending and retracting his claws and fangs, sparking his eyes to bloody life, glaring at Derek whose stare is so cold. Stiles only wants to be made warm again. He doesn’t remember what it was like to be comfortable in his own skin.

* * *

 

"Fucking _Christ_ ," Stiles curses, clutching his broken arm.

Derek stands above him, sweaty and grim. Stiles cradles his arm close to his chest, his knees drawn up close as he sits on the scuffed floor. He glares up at Derek from under his long lashes.

"Was that _really_ fucking necessary?"

"If you want to heal faster, yes," Derek answers sternly, "It's a jump start."

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ," Stiles swears again, "Why is this werewolf bullshit ninety four percent pain?"

Derek doesn't answer, only crosses his arms and stares down at Stiles expectantly, waiting for his arm to heal.

Stiles can feel the marrow knitting back together inside him. The mend is quick and eerie. He knows he'll eventually get used to this power, but it's off-putting. Feels unnatural. 

Once he can outstretch his arm again, he wiggles his fingers experimentally and frowns curiously as he pokes at his fully healed forearm. He feels Derek's anxiety wash from him, like he may have been worried that the healing was taking too long. When he looks up at Derek, though, there is no discernible emotion in his eyes. Stiles tries not to be disappointed.

"Hey," He starts curiously, "Does this mean my foreskin will grow back?"

Derek rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts.

* * *

 

“I’m getting better at this!” Stiles beams.

Derek is perched lazily on a tall tree branch, looking mildly unimpressed down at Stiles. He mutters back,

“You don’t have to shout, I can hear you. And it still took you twenty minutes to track me.”

“Oh, come on!” Stiles complains at the same volume as before, “It _was_ taking me an hour! Look at how far we’ve come this week! I’m down to twenty minutes!”

Derek’s heart aches, wanting to bask in the secondhand happiness Stiles’ bond to him offers. He doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by it, though and he doesn’t like that Stiles is getting so chummy with him. He doesn’t understand why his Alpha is looking to him for praise. He feels uneven and lonely, missing Laura and wishing he had a _real_ family, a _real_ Pack. Something stable and familiar, something warm and sacred.

He leaps down from his perch directly in front of Stiles, making him jump a little. He gives Stiles a dangerous scowl and tells him,

“If I’d been attacked or being hunted, twenty minutes is more than enough time to capture and disembowel me.”

Stiles pales with disgust at the imagery and loses his smile. Derek can tell through their bond that Stiles wants to feel close to him, wants his approval. He doesn’t give it.

He imagines what life may have been like if he’d had twenty more minutes at the most important times. What if he had had twenty more minutes to save Paige before the Alpha came? What if he had had twenty more minutes before leaving the house for school on the day of the fire? What if he had had twenty more minutes to try and find Laura before Peter found her?

What if he had had twenty more minutes to get to Peter before Stiles?

“Twenty minutes doesn’t save anyone.”

Stiles looks like he wants to fight Derek on that point, but he wisely bites his tongue.

* * *

“It’s a jab, stop extending your elbow,” Derek criticizes.

Stiles makes an aggravated noise, his sweat creating a powerful fog of _Stiles Stiles Stiles_ all over the Hale House as they spar.

“I’m not!”

“You _are_ ,” Derek corrects as he dodges another fist.

 

When Stiles goes to make another bastardized jab, Derek smacks his elbow to prove that Stiles' form is off.

Derek remembers how close the upcoming full moon is when Stiles’ eyes go red.

Stiles growls and lets out another frustrated noise before he starts throwing as many punches as he can. Derek dodges each one effortlessly, further irritating Stiles. He shoves Derek in the center of his chest, making him stumble backward and then shoves him again.

He’s hesitating, holding back so Derek growls out,

“Do it.”

“I don’t – “ Stiles starts.

“You do,” Derek bites, “Do it. Fucking do it.”

Stiles attacks him, using all the tightly wound stress and anger in him. His claws sink deep, his heartbeat is rapid in Derek’s ears, booming and threatening. Derek doesn’t fight back; every instinct in him telling him to take what Stiles serves out to him. Before he knows what’s happened, he’s bloody and sore on the decrepit wood flooring of what used to be his family room, a teenage Alpha straddled on top of him with his hands tight around Derek’s throat.

His red eyes are teary and his face is blotchy pink, sweaty and unhappy.

“You’re leaving me alone in this, Derek. I’m _alone_.”

Derek puts his hands around Stiles’ wrists, but doesn’t apply any pressure or make any indication that he’s going to try to remove Stiles from him.

“I want – I want to be close to you. I want you to accept me,” Stiles begs.

Derek’s periphery is going fuzzy without oxygen and he’s not sure if Stiles realizes how much weight he’s applying to his strangle. Derek moves his hands up Stiles’ arms and cups his face. Stiles is visibly surprised by the gesture and seems physically pained to hear how raspy and hoarse Derek’s voice is when he says,

“I accept you.”

His hands unclasp from around Derek’s neck, tears falling from his eyes as he grabs onto Derek’s hands that are around his face as if he’s desperate to keep Derek’s hands there.

“Say that again, please,” Stiles pleads softly, unable to meet Derek’s eyes, turning his face into Derek’s palms.

“I accept you,” Derek repeats.

Stiles shakes above him, a ball of nervous energy unraveling like yarn. Derek rubs his thumbs back and forth by the corners of Stiles’ eyes, wiping the tears away. The connection between them is alight where their hands meet. Stiles tells him,

“I feel so alone in this. I need you. I need you on my side.”

“I’m on your side, Stiles,” Derek assures.

Stiles still won’t look him in the eyes and is continuing to shake and cry; Derek can feel that Stiles is ashamed of attacking him. He feels all the things Stiles isn’t saying. He’s radiating insecurity and fear and the same primal loneliness Derek has always known.

He sits up and wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him in close like he used to do to Laura when the pressure of power and the memory of family tore her to pieces on the bathroom floor.

He breathes in the scent of Stiles’ sweat and listens close to his heartbeat. He inhales deeply at the crook of Stiles’ neck loudly enough to let Stiles know it's okay to do the same.

He feels Stiles intake deeply at his scalp, sighing shakily, flooding the room with a sense of relief. It’s as if there is more light in the room, as if a curse has been lifted from them.

They move their hands along one another’s faces and arms, petting in comforting circles. Stiles eventually wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and neck, tucking Derek against his chest and curling around him possessively. His fingers thread through Derek’s hair and the position puts Derek’s ear right against Stiles’ heart.

“I can’t get back what you’ve lost. I can’t replace your family, I can never be the Alpha that Laura was or your mother was… I can’t bring Peter back and give you a chance at what should have been yours. I just want to make my own space in your life. I don’t want to take anyone’s place. I want a seat of my own.”

Derek is soothed by the sound of Stiles’ voice and the coursing of Stiles’ blood. Stiles’ arms are lanky but strong around him, his scent is familial and Derek loathes to admit to himself that he feels safe. He feels safe in Stiles’ arms.

“I don’t know what to do, what to change about myself to make you want that…”

Derek shakes his head against Stiles’ chest, unintentionally burrowing himself more against the boy. Stiles seems to take it as a sign of affection and he tightens his hold around Derek, leaning in closer. Derek fits his face against Stiles’ upper chest and his lips move against Stiles’ exposed collarbone when he confides,

“I feel closer to you than I’ve ever felt to anyone.”

Stiles’ heart rate jumps up and when he stays quiet, Derek continues,

“I had a pull to my mother like the moon. It was natural, instinctive. It was strong. My bond to Laura was similar, but... not as strong. Our bond faded in and out. She tried her best. I know she did.”

Stiles’ hands start moving, one hand carding through his hair and the other rubbing his shoulder; Stiles’ attempt at consoling him.

“Neither bond was anything like what I have to you.”

“Why are you fighting it so much?”

Derek pulls away to look Stiles in the eye, keeping his hands firmly on Stiles’ waist. He gazes deeply into Stiles’ eyes and admits quietly,

“It’s all I know how to do.”

Stiles swallows a bit loudly, nods slowly and asks,

“What makes our bond so different?”

“I don’t know,” Derek lies.

* * *

 

“Just because it’s summer break for school doesn’t mean you won’t be working hard the next two months.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles replies flippantly, walking casually into Derek’s loft, “End of Sophomore Year, beginning of Werewolf Bootcamp.”

Derek smirks to himself as he feels Stiles move behind him. He looks over Derek’s shoulder, sniffing and coos,

“Oooh, is that lasagna?”

“From scratch.”

Derek can’t see him from over his shoulder, but he can sense Stiles smiling when he asks,

“Which parts?”

“All of it,” Derek answers, “My father taught me to make and cut my own noodles, I ground the meat myself for the meatballs and it takes two days to make the sauce. That’s a secret recipe. I promised my dad I’d take it to the grave.”

Stiles sounds somehow delicate,

“You made me a home-cooked lasagna?”

“It’s not done yet,” Derek brushes off, not willing to meet Stiles’ eager eyes.

He smiles to himself, though, when he hears Stiles’ stomach growl excitedly. Stiles ignores his bodily noises and tells him,

“That’s bizarrely sweet of you.”

“Thanks,” Derek says drily.

“No,” Stiles presses, putting his hand on Derek’s shoulder, “Seriously. What is this for?”

Derek glances at the hand on his shoulder, then back to Stiles, but Stiles doesn’t remove his hand. He turns to face Stiles and tells him plainly,

“You survived Sophomore year against all odds.”

Stiles is smiling so broadly at him, it’s blinding. There’s a new twinkle in Stiles’ amber eyes and through their bond Derek can feel the happiness Stiles is feeling. It’s a little overwhelming.

_Why do this mean so much to him?_ Derek wonders.

“Can you teach me how to scent emotions this week?” Stiles inquires gently, looking sweet and uncharacteristically hopeful.

Derek hesitates like he’s contemplating it very seriously, withering Stiles’ hopeful eyes just a little before he shrugs and says,

“Sure.”

Stiles is grinning again, radiating glee.

Both Derek and Stiles twitch towards the door and Stiles announces,

“Looks like Scott’s arrived for the festivities.”

Derek tries not to enjoy the boys’ company over dinner, how their laughter and easy conversation paints contentment on all the walls of his loft. He tires hard not to act on or even acknowledge the binding he feels to Stiles, egging him on to sit just a little closer, to stare just a moment longer.

* * *

 

Scott is standing in front of Stiles in the middle of the loft, holding a few index cards. Each one has an idea, quote or memory written out on it that’s meant to illicit a specific emotional response from Scott. The one Scott is currently staring at reads,

_Coach Finstock in French Maid lingerie._

Scott’s been instructed by Derek not to show his reaction to whatever he reads on his face. He struggles to keep his expression straight while being stared down by both Derek and Stiles.

Stiles has to remain six or more feet from Scott while Derek scrutinizes from the couch, waiting for Stiles to voice an estimate. Stiles scents the air and pauses.

“Disgust? Grossness? Are you grossed out?”

Scott looks to Derek to make sure he’s allowed to answer the question and Derek gestures vaguely to go ahead. Scott nods and Stiles smiles, immediately glancing to Derek for approval. Derek doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t scowl either. His anger feels drained out of him and staying mad at Stiles every day of every week is too exhausting. He tells Scott,

“Go to the next one.”

Scott flips to the next card;

_Your first kiss._

Stiles points at Scott with a wide grin, instantaneously announces,

“Embarrassment! You smell embarrassed!”

Scott laughs and looks to Derek when he says,

“He’s pretty good at this game.”

Before Derek can make comment, Stiles admits,

“To be fair, Scott, you smell like that a lot.”

Scott gives him a dirty look and Derek can’t help the smile that spreads shyly on his face. He meets Stiles’ eyes and they’re sparkling in his direction, looking taken and distracted by Derek’s smile. He lets his smile fall away and tells Scott,

“Go to the next one.”

Scott looks down and the card reads;

_Allison lying naked on your bed._

Derek is able to see the red filling up Scott’s face and to him, the scent is familiar and easy to identify. He wonders if Stiles will be able to tell what it is.

Stiles sniffs the air, nostrils flaring. Scott watches him and Stiles starts conversationally,

“Well, it’s definitely not disgust.”

Scott gives a nervous chuckle and Derek shushes him. Stiles scents the air a little more, circling around Scott from a few feet away. He hums curiously and says,

“I’ve smelled this before.”

Derek smirks from behind his hand, trying to keep a stoic face. Stiles looks to Derek and concedes,

“I dunno. What is it?”

Derek has to fight the itch at the corners of his mouth, unwilling to smile. He suggests,

“Why don’t you ask Scott?”

Stiles looks to Scott expectantly and he replies,

“Sexy.”

“…you feel sexy?”

“No,” Scott laughs, “It’s a sexy smell. I’m thinking about sex.”

Stiles nods and says, “You smell kinda weird when you’re thinking about sex.”

Scott rolls his eyes and tells Stiles, “Whatever, at least you’re not saying I smell bad like you did about my anger.”

“It’s like burnt rubber! It’s terrible!”

Scott laughs and then looks between Derek and Stiles. He eventually asks,

“Can you tell what Derek is feeling?”

Stiles snorts,

“That would imply that Derek has feelings.”

That comment stings Derek more than he is prepared for. He meets Stiles’ eyes and can tell Stiles is contemplating him. He scents the air, but as Derek already knows, Stiles comes up empty-handed. Stiles takes a step closer to Derek, closing his eyes and scenting the air again. His brows turn in and when he opens his eyes, he asks,

“Do you really not feel anything, or am I way worse at this than I thought?”

Derek stands up from the couch, collecting the index cards from Scott and explains,

“I’ve spent years learning to mask it. Most people don’t know how to. It’s not something you’ll have to worry about with other people.”

Scott seems all too happy to take a lunch break, but Derek works hard during those quiet hours to ignore Stiles’ eyes on him.

* * *

 

“What can I do about making a Pack?”

Derek and Stiles are out in the Preserve, sparring until the question comes out of Stiles as if he’d been holding it in for months. The summer sun is beating down on them, both of them sweating and a little short of breath. Derek cocks a brow and asks,

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do I make a Pack?” Stiles rephrases, “I mean, your family was huge. That’s what Packs look like, right? I need a Pack to make myself stronger. I need to make a Pack, right?”

Derek’s uncertain at first as to why his stomach churns with jealousy. He doesn’t really know where he stands with Stiles, almost a year having passed from the scramble in the Hale house where he told Stiles he accepted him.

He doesn’t know if Stiles is remembering that, or maybe Stiles is just as uncertain about whether or not Derek is part of his Pack. Maybe he doesn’t consider Derek anything.

_Maybe he only considers Scott part of his Pack_ , Derek wonders.

“You find people you want to Turn, then you offer them the Bite.”

Stiles looks disbelievingly at Derek and lets his arms fall to his sides, now concerned with the conversation more than the sparring.

“Are you fucking with me? It’s that simple?”

Derek shrugs and replies, “You choose those people carefully.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Stiles remarks.

Derek stares at Stiles gravely when he says,

“Really. The Bite is a gift.”

Stiles’ eyes bore right into Derek’s, something strong and unfamiliar swimming beneath the amber there. Derek adds,

“You don’t just give it to anyone.”

Stiles nods, wondering to himself if Derek has thought all this time that he was never deserving of the Bite. He thinks to himself that if he were Derek, he’d feel that way.

* * *

 

Stiles is studying for his Chemistry class on Derek’s couch, occasionally chewing on his pencil and making confused sighs, but otherwise remaining quiet. Derek is cooking in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables and half-watching a pot of water boil.

“I once dyed my hair blue,” Derek states.

“Lie,” Stiles answers, not looking up from his open textbook.

“This is the coldest winter I’ve experienced.”

“Lie,” Stiles replies.

Derek nods to the cutting board, trying to think up more lies or half-truths he can give to test Stiles’ ability to read his heartbeat. Then he thinks that he should throw a curveball with something honest. He swallows thickly and says,

“My leather jacket used to belong to my father.”

He feels Stiles pause and hears him shift slightly under his notebook paper and textbook. He hears Stiles answer softly,

“Truth.”

“The house was passed down from my father’s side.”

“Lie.”

“I used to braid Laura’s hair.”

“Truth,” Stiles labels reverently.

“I stole the Camaro.”

“You _stole_ the Camaro?!” Stiles exclaims.

Derek doesn’t reply, only turns to stir the pasta and then goes back to chopping vegetables. He listens to Stiles slide off the couch and walk over to the island in the kitchen. He’s leaning on it, watching Derek’s back when he asks incredulously again,

“You stole _the Camaro_?”

Derek smiles down at the head of broccoli and admits,

“I was in a rush.”

“Dude, you _stole_ the Camaro?”

“We lived in the city, Stiles,” Derek explains, “No one keeps a car in Manhattan. They’re virtually useless. I took a train out of the city and the first fast car I saw, I broke into.”

“Dude,” Stiles laughs, “You _stole a Camaro_!”

Derek turns around to face Stiles while he stirs the pasta and ignores Stiles’ scandalized expression to say plainly,

“So you’ve mentioned.”

Stiles eventually shuts his mouth and then runs a hand through his hair. Derek would never admit it, but the scent of food and Stiles in the loft quells a crying in him that he is so used to, he only notices it when it is stopped. Stiles requests,

“Keep going.”

“I hate cooking.”

“Lie,” Stiles smiles proudly.

 

"I've never had a pet."

"Lie."

Derek turns his back to Stiles, pouring the steaming water out of the pot and into a strainer in the sink. While the steam is billowing up in his face, he tells Stiles,

“I don’t know, I don’t think I can come up with anymore today.”

Stiles’ energy is tightly wound behind him, making him uneasy.

“Are you part of my Pack?”

Derek stills above the sink, staring at the clouds of steam still coming up under his chin. He answers,

“I accepted you as my Alpha.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles retorts, “Are you part of my Pack?”

“What?” Derek sneers, “You want me to tell you I’m your Beta?”

“I’m not trying to play some weird rank game, Derek,” Stiles asserts, “Why can't you just answer the question?”

Derek lets out an aggravated sigh, slumping his shoulders and shutting his eyes against the fading steam. He confesses lowly,

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you’re part of my Pack?”

“I don’t know.”

Stiles’ scent goes sour and his heartbeat does something unusual.

Derek opens his eyes only when he hears Stiles shut the loft door behind him.

* * *

 

“This is pointless,” Erica complains.

“It’s not! Learning to control each part of the shift is important,” Stiles replies.

Derek meets Scott’s stare when he walks into the Preserve; Scott looks uncertain, almost nervous that he’s come uninvited. The thought that he is no longer welcome in Stiles’ Pack business is a cold stake through his heart.

Erica seems to take immediate notice of Derek and her scents spike; she likes him. Stiles follows her stare and looks alarmed to see Derek. Derek wants to chastise Stiles for not paying close enough attention to their surroundings that he didn’t hear or smell Derek coming. He thinks that it must not be his place anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

Derek stalls under Stiles’ expectant glare.

“I heard a howl. I came to make sure no one was in trouble.”

Stiles goes back to giving his full attention to Erica.

“It’s her second full moon. I had to get her under control for a second. Everything is fine.”

Derek looks to Scott. The human looks sheepish and uncomfortable, like he wants to clear the air of the heavy tension but doesn’t know how to begin. Derek nods mostly to himself since Stiles is refusing to look at him. He mutters,

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles says with no small measure of irritation.

Derek turns his back and as he’s walking away, he hears the girl ask,

“Who is that?”

“Not important,” Stiles tells her.

_Not important_ , Derek repeats in his head for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Stiles restless nights seep into his mornings, making him late to his first period class. He's so often late or absent that, just based on his tardies alone, he's failing. He's too embarrassed about struggling with English composition to tell anyone that he needs help keeping up. It's not even a lot of work, he's just not making the time for it. He can't find any motivation within himself. It's just more shame he wears.

His dreams are either vivid and disturbing or nonexistent. Sometimes he's awake for three days straight and other times he comes home from school to take a nap on the couch and wakes up ten hours later. His appetite is dead, his hair is long and his heart is hallow.

He's always checking his phone and he gets benched at lacrosse practice for body slamming Jackson.

Scott watches him with worried eyes and his father mentions that he's losing weight and looks pale.

All he feels is pathetic.

* * *

 

Derek is walking out of the gas station just in time to see the Jeep pull up. Two boys Derek doesn’t know come out, one broad and dark, the other tall and pale. The blonde girl is there again, climbing out of the backseat with the two other boys while Scott jumps down from the passenger’s seat and Stiles shuts the driver side door.

Stiles flashes his eyes at Derek, though Derek isn’t sure why. He’s not even sure what it could mean.

Scott comes jogging up to Derek, despite Stiles calling after him. He greets Derek and says,

“I don’t know what’s happening… uhm, but, could I have your number?”

Derek nods and tells him,

“I won’t be in town long.”

From behind Scott, Stiles nearly drops the gas pump, but Derek doesn’t glance up at him. The three newly turned Betas walk by Derek and into the gas station store, headed straight to the candy isle. Scott quirks a brow and asks,

“What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving,” Derek answers simply.

“Beacon Hills?”

“California,” Derek specifies.

Derek thinks to himself that Stiles isn’t doing a good job of controlling his heartbeat. It’s thunderous and banging like a drum in Derek’s ears. Scott’s brows curve sadly and he mutters,

“Oh… uhm, well, I’d still like to add you.”

Derek nods again and exchanges numbers with Scott before leaving. He doesn't look at Stiles.

He’s home and in bed already when he gets Scott’s first text.

**Scott: Something is wrong with Stiles. I think the pressure of being Alpha is making him act weird? I can’t tell what’s going on with him. He’s been really quick to get angry and when Erica or Isaac or Boyd ask questions he doesn’t know the answer to, he refuses to call you. What happened?**

Derek writes back,

**Derek: He’ll acclimate. He always does. He knows how to reach me.**

Scott replies;

**Scott: But what happened between you two?**

**Derek: Not important.**

* * *

 

Derek looks around the loft, his duffle bag by his feet. He sighs to himself, wondering how empty and ominous the New York apartment will feel when he walks through that door three thousand miles away. Three thousand miles from the Preserve, from the woods, from the burnt out husk of his childhood home. Three thousand miles from Laura’s grave, from the Columbian restaurant Scott loves, from Stiles’ cluttered bedroom.

His body is screaming at him to stay close to Stiles, to somehow get _closer_. His instincts are vying for control, scratching at the bars around his heart. The most animal part of him wants to find Stiles, hold him, take a place by his side that will never be dispensable.

But he no longer feels welcome in Beacon Hills and moreover he feels as if Stiles has adopted his family name and identity without adopting him alongside it. He feels excommunicated. Estranged and alone. These feelings are not unfamiliar to him, though.

He wants a _home_. He knows he won’t find it in New York, but if there's one thing he knows he can survive, it is going without. He has mastered the art of crawling into an empty bed, he is proficient in daytime silence and almost finds comfort watching the hours fall away into night. None of it is home, though. He thinks the closest he’s felt to home since he was fifteen has been in clandestine moments when Stiles’ eyes have glistened into his. Quiet minutes where Stiles helped him wash the dishes, where Stiles sat curled on the couch with his laptop, researching late into the night.

He doesn’t know how to start that conversation, though.

He’s resigned to being an Omega.

Laura would weep.

Very suddenly, he hears familiar footfalls before a shout through the empty building.

“Derek? Derek! Are you here? You’re still here, right?”

Derek turns towards the door to the loft and says softly,

“Always listen for heartbeats before coming into a building if it’s supposed to be empty.”

Only a few seconds pass before Stiles is standing before him, slightly out of breath. He smells like the woods and wind and guilt and fear.

“Tell me you don’t love me.”

Derek stills.

“What.”

“Tell me,” Stiles demands, “Tell me. Tell me you don’t love me. Say it.”

Derek’s brows pinch, his blood screaming and rushing around his heart, begging him to get closer.

He scowls.

“What are you playing at, Stiles?”

Stiles’ eyes stay humanly amber when he says, “I need you to say it, Derek.”

“Why?”

“Because this has been the hardest few months of my life without you.”

Derek’s brows spring up in surprise at that.

Stiles stare turns hard and his hands shake at his sides.

“I feel like… I feel like I’ve been skirting around the edges of my sanity without you. I keep looking for you everywhere. I keep hoping you’ll show up at my window, or call me and tell me there’s something to research or help kill or there’s something super important about being a werewolf that you didn’t tell me. You accepted me as your Alpha, but you didn’t accept being my Beta. I don’t want you to feel like an underling, Derek. I never wanted that. I wanted you to feel like my equal, I wanted you to want me to be a part of your life. I’m sorry I bled into your life, but you bled into mine too…”

Stiles steps more into Derek’s space, seeming broader and taller and stronger than Derek remembers. He’s exuding desperation.

“If you leave… I feel like… I’ve already felt like…”

Stiles struggles for the words, shaking his head and stumbling over,

“I feel like I’m losing the biggest part of myself.”

“I don’t love you.”

Stiles’ eyes are round and flickering between Derek’s.

“Again.”

“I don’t love you,” Derek repeats.

“That’s a lie,” Stiles whispers, brimming with awe.

Derek tells him something honest,

“If you told me to stay, I’d stay.”

“Stay,” Stiles begs, voice sounding a little high and still a little short of breath, “Stay. Stay forever. With me.”

Derek grabs Stiles’ face and presses their lips together finally, _finally_. He pulls away, but as soon as he does, Stiles is moving forward to capture his lips again. Stiles’ hands grab onto his upper arms, slide up to his neck and his mouth moves like poetry against Derek’s.

“I need you – I need you so much closer,” Stiles’ gasps against Derek’s mouth.

Derek doesn’t mean to groan, but it’s as if Stiles has sunk his fangs into his heart and ripped out his most shameful desire. He’s able to mutter back,

“You too. I need you too.”

Stiles pushes into the loft, directing them to Derek’s bed and all but ripping his shirt off on the way. Derek throws his jacket off, letting it flutter to the floor with his own shirt and when they make it to his bed, he falls over Stiles, framing him with his arms. Stiles’ eyes are crimson and twinkling excitedly. He says,

“You smell like arousal and affection.”

“Mm,” Derek agrees into Stiles’ neck, licking and biting up the column of freckled flesh.

Stiles sighs blissfully, moving his hands against Derek’s back muscles and bending his head back to give Derek better access. It’s such a show of vulnerability and trust that Derek gets chills. He kisses Stiles’ cheek before dropping and grinding his waist onto Stiles’ and eliciting a groan from him. Stiles’ fingers scramble over his skin for better purchase, his eyes are shut and his face is flushed beautifully.

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry I walked out. I’m sorry I – “

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, languidly moving his hips against Stiles’, “I’m sorry too.”

Stiles’ hands grab onto his hair and bring him down to kiss again. The taste of Stiles’ tongue against his tongue, the scent of Stiles’ breath with his breath feeds a hungry animal in him. He goes to unbuckle Stiles’ belt and pauses, looking to him for approval. Stiles nods vehemently and licks his kiss-swollen lips before urging,

“Oh, God, yes – don’t stop. Just don’t stop, Derek.”

Derek doesn’t stop removing layers between them until there are none left and they are warm flesh against warm flesh. Derek’s heart has been a desert and Stiles is an oasis. He wraps his arms under Stiles’ back, tucking him close. Their kisses fall away to a lot of gasping and moaning, traveling through the loft and beating against the walls like a heartbeat. Stiles is overwhelmed by a sense of completion, this voice in his head chanting,

_This is where you’re meant to be, this is where you’re meant to be._

“I’ve been – I’ve been in love with you – I am,” Stiles confesses, “I’m in love with you and I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

“I love you back,” Derek murmurs gently.

He watches a tear shimmer and fall from the corner of one of Stiles’ shut eyes. He kisses Stiles’ cheek, then his lips again.

“You’re home,” Derek says, wishing he had more words to explain what he’s feeling.

Stiles’ brow quirks and his bedroom eyes open in slits. They’re golden and brown again, warm like sun-beaten sand and foggy with love and lust. Derek explains,

“You’re my home.”

Stiles reaches his hand between them, running his hand up Derek’s length. Derek’s eyes flicker wildly from sea foam to electric blue and Stiles is thrilled by it. He licks into Derek’s mouth and when he lets his head fall back against the blankets, he begs breathlessly,

“Put your hands on me.”

Derek mimics Stiles’ hand, making Stiles gasp. Derek hadn't been sure before, but now he is that this is Stiles' first sexual encounter. He tries to take it slow for that reason, kissing him gently and moving against him languidly. Ever the adventurist, Stiles is eager to give back and his hands brush all over Derek's torso. His one hand keeps pumping while the other runs up Derek's abs and over his chest.

A bead of precum drops from the head of Derek's cock and Stiles intakes sharply. He groans, throwing his head back,

“That _smells_ so right… this feels… this feels _so right_.”

Derek's free hand moves beneath Stiles, grabbing under one of his thighs and tugging it out to further spread Stiles' legs. Stiles' want fills his senses and comes over him like a tidal wave. He lets go of Stiles for a brief second to pin his hands over his head. There's so much pleasure and adrenaline in Stiles' scents and sounds that Derek can hardly process anything outside of it.

He hides his face in the crook of Stiles' neck, kissing and licking until he finds the right spot that makes Stiles groan. While he's thrusting against Stiles, he bites into the tender flesh of his neck and Stiles' entire body seizes as he comes. It's almost immediate and Derek moans at the scent of it, orgasm rushing through him before he can control it.

Stiles’ ears are ringing from the force of his orgasm and Derek’s heartbeat is drumming throughout the room. It's blissful. 

"I never meant to leave you alone in that," Derek whispers, "I'll never abandon you like that again."

Stiles’ round eyes move between Derek’s, looking for a lie or a single sign of doubt. He doesn’t find any.

“Come here,” Stiles smiles sweetly, spreading his arms up and out to welcome Derek’s weight.

As soon as Derek lays down on him, Stiles lets out a silly, “Oof,” and Derek smiles into Stiles’ collarbone.

“You’re still hard,” Stiles comments.

“Mm,” Derek agrees, “It’s the scents.”

“It’s doing things to me too,” Stiles assures, touch of embarrassment dressing his otherwise intoxicating scent. Stiles’ hand pets through Derek’s hair lovingly and in the quiet contentment filling the loft, he whispers against Derek’s ebony hair,

“I think we make a pretty good pair.”

Stiles can feel the wave of happiness roll off of Derek and onto him, their bond like a golden harp song, strong and sweet between them. A bond Derek is _finally_ letting him feel.

Derek replies,

“I tend to agree.”

Stiles chuckles and wraps his arms tighter around Derek’s torso, twines their long legs together. It helps move a piece of Derek’s soul into place and as it falls into its slot, all Derek can hear the choirs in his head singing is,

_You’re home. You’re home._


End file.
